Saturday, August 5 Bus, Dharamsala, Buddhist Temple, Dalai Lama's House

I woke up not knowing that it was daylight. The upper berth of the train didn’t afford good views of the countryside. We stopped a bunch of times, because other trains were crossing our tracks. We finally reached Pathankot, in Punjab, at ten. We walked along the outdoor platform until we got to the main road. A man came up to me, asking if I was a Tibetan, because he wanted to find more Tibetans for some reason. He told us where to catch the bus, and we had to wait a few minutes for the next bus to Dharamsala in Himachal Pradesh. The bus was old and crowded. We luckily got two adjacent seats, at the back. The way the bus works is it’s a local bus that makes a bunch of stops, picking people up and dropping them off whenever. So the turnover is rapid and people from all strata of society are present; the nursing Dalit mother, the white backpacking tourists, the commuting businessmen, and rural families. There is a driver, usually chain-smoking and crazy, and then an assistant who yells “Dharamshala, Dharamshala, Dharamshala”, blows the whistle (acting as the beep) three times whenever we’re backing up, collects money, and tells people to hurry up. Ours happened to look like Snoop Dogg without cornrows. The bus ride cost $1.50 for a 60 km ride. Yet it still lasted three long hours. Why, you may ask? Because the road was mud with humungous potholes filled with water, we stopped for a 30-minute lunch break, we made probably 40 stops, and the paved portion of the road going up to the foothills was windy and uphill. During the lunch break we stopped at a small but busy dhaba and ate some dal, rice, roti, and other curries. It seemed dirty, but the locals liked it. The views driving through Himachal were beautiful. It was rainy and the rivers ran brown, the color of chai. The landscape was painted with every shade of green. Rice and corn fields were everywhere. The plains gave way to slow-rising green mountains and foothills, covered in low clouds. Rural villages dotted the landscape. I slept most of the way because I didn’t want to get carsick. We finally got to Dharamsala, which was the exact replica of Mussoorie (small shops along a winding one-lane mountain road, with green hills and buildings surrounding). From there we took yet another bus up to McLeod Ganj, the actual Tibetan refugee colony. That bus was quicker but really windy. It dropped us off right in the central square, with many shops, restaurants, and hotels. We got out and walked down the road to the main Buddhist temple. It was an interesting mix of people; Indian tourist families, Tibetan monks dressed in red and yellow robes with shaved heads, and Western tourists (mostly from Europe). The road was small and was lined with convenience stores, souvenir shops, and restaurants. On the way we passed a lot of leper beggars. We got to the temple at the end of the road. Demarcated by a large yellow gateway, we entered and walked around the outside, adorned with painted rocks laid out in prayer for a Free Tibet. The temple was a functional modern building filled exclusively with monks and tourists. It also housed the monastery. Hundreds of monks, all bald and wearing red and yellow, congregated and were talking outside in the courtyard. The first room housed a gold statue of the Buddha (Asian-looking) and some other deities also in the Hindu pantheon. Offerings of candles, coins, and…biscuits…sat before him. Paintings and scrolls covered the walls. There was also a picture of “His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet” as Tibetans call him, with offerings as well. Pictures of his picture were forbidden for some reason. Along the outside of the temple were mantra wheels, which you spin to gain mantras and good fortune. Then we walked outside the temple complex to the gate of the Dalai Lama’s house, which was guarded. It’s up a long winding road. He randomly makes appearances and gives speeches and you can meet him. He makes one in a week, so it was just bad timing. After that we walked through the small winding alleys to the Tibet Museum, an interesting display of artifacts and stories recounting the Tibetan experience, before, during, and after the Chinese “liberation” (liberation meaning invasion) in the 1960s. The Chinese were horrible to the Tibetans; they invaded and took over, incarcerating, beating, torturing, or killing whoever spoke out against them. 1.2 million Tibetans died, and it prompted a mass exodus over the harsh Himalayas, many dying or catching frostbite. At the point I was reading that fact, Tibetans were currently fleeing their homeland south to the safety of India. The Chinese rule the Tibetan plateau, and now that the government “encourages” immigration there, so Tibetans are becoming a minority in their own lands. Also, the Chinese use the beautiful land (the highest plateau in the world, with many mountains, forests, steppes, and rivers) as a receptacle for nuclear waste and generate hydroelectric power that benefits urban coastal China. It’s actually a really sad story. All they want is freedom. One Tibetan refugee woman asked if I was Asian, and I said yes, but not Chinese. It’s like during World War II when Chinese would wear buttons that say “I’m Chinese”, so they wouldn’t be mistaken for Japanese. They explained they hate Chinese who raped their people and lands, and all they want is freedom for their own lands. They are not Chinese; they speak different languages, look different, claim a different heritage, wear different clothes, value different things, do not support the government, and are a peaceful and spiritual people. The Dalai Lama has tried endlessly to reason with the Chinese government, who refuses to acknowledge him or his claims. The cause has gained international support, but Tibetans fear that the development of China as a world power will render their people helpless in this cause. It’s a really sad story, now that I am seeing it from the center of the Tibetan government in exile. We found the Kunga Guest House, a small restaurant and hotel. The room was fine; very plain but they tried; they put an apple, orange, and rotting banana on the shelves as decoration. We spent the rest of the afternoon shopping until dinner. They had some cool Tibetan stuff. The shops were owned by Indians or Tibetans. The Indians tried to overcharge tourists. One even quoted me for a Buddhist painting at $105. I said I’d pay him 105 Rs, and he acted offended that I would offer that low a price. I hate tourists sometimes; they probably fall for that, and they probably pay those exorbitant prices. The Tibetan shop owners, on the other hand, did not try and cheat the customer. They sold everything from fake Nikes and Adidas to Tibetan handicrafts. You could buy Buddhist and Hindu statues, embroidered silk wall hangings, beads, incense, music, wool blankets and clothing, purses, t-shirts, postcards, paintings, and “Free Tibet” souvenirs. Tourists and Tibetans clogged the streets. Tibetan women wore heavy wool sweaters with long black dresses and silk embroidered aprons, their hair in buns. The men wore Western clothing, except for the monks, mostly teenage boys. Unfortunately and embarrassingly, weird white people sported shaved heads red Buddhist robes. Actors Richard Gere, Uma Thurman, and Goldie Hawn all patronize this place. We ate at a small but very good Tibetan organic vegetarian restaurant. I had Lamen (square noodles), vegetable momos (gyoza), and dense Tibetan bread. We walked back to the hotel and got some REAL APPLE PIE. It was good, too. Then we walked around and looked at the shops that were still open (even though it was a waste of time because they charged 500 Rs for a wool hat). So we got bored and went to Baskin-Robbins and ate, more dessert. We tried finding the alleged “rave”, but no one knew what we were talking about, so I figured that the travel agent was lying to us and there was actually no rave at all. We came back to our room and talked and fell asleep.